Cheating Death
by Nationless
Summary: Francis didn't know why he agreed to this deal. He had been perfectly all right with dying, and he was glad that his death would give another back their life. Yet, he found himself working off a debt of 130 souls for one reason. Arthur deserved another shot. He needed it, even if Francis didn't. Sequel to Deals with Death


**Author's Notes: **All right guys. I finally got my ass in gear and started writing a sequel. Hopefully this is a suitable apology for the complete heartbreak that is 'Deals with Death'. And if not, I hope you enjoy it anyways. No promises it will be any happier.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya.

~X~

_"Could you bring him back?" he asked softly. "Arthur Kirkland. Could he come back with me?" He was pleading, but he didn't care. There was no one to judge him but Death.  
_

_There was a thoughtful pause. It seemed to drag on for eternities. Just as Francis was about to give up, the phantom voice replied. "I'm sure we can arrange something."  
_

_He looked up, hope restored. A strained smile on his lips, and nervous laughter breaking through. "We can?" he asked. "How? What… What do I have to do?"  
_

_His mind was racing. It was possible. There was a way to get not only him out of hell, but Arthur as well. They could be normal, live together in his old apartment…  
_

_"Come work with me," Death said, velvet voice breaking through Francis' thoughts. "Your own debt plus a… small penalty for young Arthur. Are you in agreement with this?"  
_

_There wasn't any sort of thought involved. It would get them both out of this. This was exactly what Francis had been praying for. "Just tell me what to do, and it will be done."  
_

~X~

Francis Bonnefoy slowly approached the desk, unable to properly explain why he felt so apprehensive. The aura of this entire building set him on edge, and the irritated-looking blond behind the counter wasn't helpful. His green eyes were narrowed as he appraised the new Assassin. The Frenchman could feel the power behind those eyes, and was reminded of the days in school when Gilbert would lay a similar glare on him.

"Your name?" he asked, an undeterminable accent turning his words.

The Frenchman brushed his hair off his face, wishing he could tie the long, golden waves back. "Francis Bonnefoy," he quietly responded.

The unknown man started shuffling through papers, his eyes quickly skimming through them. He didn't deign to give Francis a response, or even acknowledge that he had spoken.

After a few brief moments, the silence became unbearable. "And yours?" he asked, merely to hear something other that the rustling of papers.

That earned him another short, familiar glare. "Vash Zwingli." A collection of three manila folders were harshly slid across the desk. "You're first assignments," he explained. "When you're done with them, come back and I'll give you more. Got it Bonnefoy?"

Wordlessly, Francis nodded. Vash… He was so abrasive that it almost physically hurt.

In the back of his mind, the former artist made the connection. This was the man Arthur had disappeared to go see. He was the one who was more 'practical' than Francis.

He believed what the teen had said was how Vash was 'less of an artist' to be precise.

As Francis considered these things, Vash ducked beneath the desk, pulling out a long sword with a blade barely as wide as his finger. "This is your weapon," he continued. "It'll always be there when you need it, so don't worry about losing it or anything. You can let it go whenever you want. When you do need it… Well, I'll leave that to another Assassin to explain.

"You can't see your weapon unless you're physically holding it, and humans can't see you when you are holding it unless you want them to. This is negated while you're still in this form, as no one but us can see you now."

Francis wanted to interject there, as he had been able to see Arthur clearly even when the bow had been in his hand, and had heard it fall on at least two different occasions. But, he thought better of it, keeping his mouth closed on the subject. There were some secrets that Francis just wanted to hold on to.

"Anything else?" he asked instead, tentatively taking hold of the hilt, not liking the way it felt solid in his hand.

"There's nothing left for me to tell you except to get out of here," Vash answered. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll spend as little time here as possible. Got it?"

Francis nodded meekly, picking up the folders and made his way to the entrance, releasing his hold on the weapon in the process. There was something about this man that made him not want to get on their bad side. How Arthur could find comfort in him was beyond the ex-artist…

When he tried to push the door open, Francis nearly screamed when his hand went right through the glass, instantly recoiling and nearly tripping over his own feet in panic. The folders scattered across the floor.

He stared at it in shock. The folders had been easily grasped in his hands, and he had been able to feel the cold metal of the sword, but…

Then he remembered the punk saying it was a 'proh-cess', and how a physical form was something that needed to be gained back. Of course, he couldn't remember how long he needed to do this before then… Details like that escaped him now.

Hell, the entire idea of that had completely escaped him. He felt no different now than when he had been alive… Or, he didn't think he did, at least. There was nothing particularly noticeably different.

Francis took a shaky breath to steady himself. Obviously it would be quite a while before he would fully adjust to this… nonsense. He took a moment to gather his papers from the ground before trying to leave again, wincing as his body slid through the glass.

The second Francis got used to this was the moment that he would be positive that he lost his mind, he decided.

~X~

Francis took Vash's advice, and stayed away from the office building. Instead, he was content to wander the areas he was familiar with; Gilbert's college campus, his own alleyway, the little coffee shop Antonio was determined to keep open, down the main street with it's crowds of people…

The problem, however, was that people in most of those places knew Francis, and would talk about him in hushed tones, not realizing that the man was standing right there.

"An aneurism at that age, can you imagine?" murmured the old women who frequented Antonio's.

"I can't believe he's just… gone," countless young girls would sigh, standing at the mouth of Francis' old work-place.

It was a bit disconcerting. Though, with time, Francis figured it would die off. In time they would all forget about the young artist from Nice, and would cease talking. After all, with a debt of 130 human souls, he would likely be here for at least a decade.

Then, perhaps it would be much more pleasant to be wandering about town.

~X~

It hadn't even been a week since Francis' twenty-sixth birthday. In a short span of time, he had gone from a content, free-minded street artist to being a spectator at his very own burial, wracked with agony.

Now he understood why Arthur had objected so severely to the idea of attending. If Francis had a heart left… Well, the proceedings tore it right out of him.

His mother was crying softly as she clung to her only remaining child. Her slender form hidden beneath a severe black dress.

Michelle lost her ever-present smile as her eyes remained locked on her brother's casket. Silent tears carved paths down her cheeks.

The entire ordeal was surreal. Watching his few friends and small family stand in the burning July sun, clad entirely in black save the white lilies they all bore.

Had any other Reaper—Assassin, he corrected himself—done this? Did they watch as their corpse was lowered into the ground? Perhaps they didn't want to. Maybe they just wanted to forget their pasts; to hide from the pain.

Maybe, he thought, that's why they had convinced themselves that they were never human.

After they had all cast their memories and flowers atop it, Francis' casket, most of the guests left in silence. His mother was escorted away by Michelle and Antonio, with Lovino trailing behind. The young Italian kept a distance from the other mourners, realizing he didn't belong there.

Still, Francis continued to watch. He stood apart from the rest, though he knew they couldn't see him. Eventually, Gilbert was the only one who remained.

The albino stood in front of the grave until the white casket was completely buried. Throughout the entire ordeal, Francis hadn't seen him shed a single tear. He had been entirely focused on the marble headstone.

That was pain. Watching your closest friend bury his hurt while your own body was submersed into the earth. Knowing the two of you would never meet again.

And then, Gilbert did something that completely overwhelmed the ex-artist. Just before walking away, Gil focused his crimson gaze squarely on Francis. As if he could somehow see the Assassin.

"I told you he was trouble," he said. "I told him to stay away… And I was right. Where was your precious little lover today, Francis? I warned you…"

Francis stared at him, wide-eyed. If only Gilbert knew… "I'm sorry," he whispered in return.

Gilbert sighed, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette. A grimace was on his lips, and then he did something completely unbelievable. "I know," he answered before pressing a cigarette to his lips and walking away.

That more than he could handle. As soon as Gilbert was a safe enough distance away, Francis collapsed to his knees, scant feet from where his corpse was, sobs wracking the body he supposedly didn't have anymore.

He remembered hearing that the dead didn't feel pain. That that was the reason people killed themselves, so that they wouldn't feel. If Francis could tell them, he would say it was an agony like none other.

It was then, however, that Francis swore he was never going to forget anything. He would hold on to this pain, his memories, every second of love, hate, joy, misery, and rage that he could manage.

It didn't matter if it tore him up inside. Francis refused to forget a single moment. If he had to hold on to his humanity in a place like this, it would take everything he had.


End file.
